attn party people, frank means business (franked) wrote in blurred_lines, @ 2009-07-28 00:57:00 |
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Severus picked up a leather bound tome and considered the title thoughtfully before placing it back into the box, and closing the box back up. These would be the final pieces of the Library before the opening next week. It had been a long process rebuilding, but Severus was content that it had been done to the best of his abilities. Ultimately though, it wouldn’t matter particularly -- at least not if this went through how it was meant to. He cleared his mind of the implications of it. He had gone through it a hundred times and Lily’s safety was more important than anything else. Getting rid of Rodolphus Lestrange would rid him of that problem, and in the long term would cause a good deal of damage to the Death Eaters.
He waved his wand at the box and moved it into the Library to meet Mr Lestrange. He placed it on the table and turned to the older man, his demeanour betraying nothing of the nervousness in the pit of his stomach.
"I believe that is the last of the rare volumes," he told Rodolphus. "The rest of the public volumes will be shelved tomorrow. It is about 75% complete at this point in time, and once those are finished, and these are shelved -" he gave Lestrange what was almost a smile. "The Library will be ready to open."
Rodolphus was oblivious enough to the emotions of others that even had Severus been frowning, he wouldn't have noticed. As it was, the smile was registered vaguely as he turned to greet the other man, and then looked back up at his rebuilt library. There was no lingering smell of burnt books, but somewhere at the back of his mind that smell would be ever-present. A tightness gripped and released him and he decided, in those short seconds, that he would not accept any emotion resembling fear of this place. He had to begin anew. This place was an homage to the Dark Lord, and there was nothing so very important in his life than that. Today would be a good day.
With a brief nod, he stretched out a hand to one of the wolfhounds that had come along for the inspection. It bumped his palm and whined a bit, as if aware that one of its brothers had been lost here only a few short months ago. Rodolphus did not coddle it. They had all lost during this war, and no good came of dwelling.
"You have done an excellent job, Severus," he rumbled, gesturing for the stairs so that they could see these books properly shelved. "Society is in your debt." He paused a moment and took to the first step. "As am I."
Severus took the praise, and it certainly was praise from Rodolphus, and pushed aside any tinge of guilt at the words. He had long ago learned that he had to compartmentalise when he was in a battle and this -- although it might be less intense than the battles on the grounds at Hogwarts had been -- was still a battle. Later he might feel somewhat guilty about the betrayal, but it wouldn't change that Lily's safety was more important than any guise of loyalty to a man who deeply believed in so much that Severus hated.
"It has been an honour and a pleasure," he said sincerely, looking around the room. He did believe that the public parts of this Library, and indeed knowledge itself, was essential to rebuilding a society that had been torn apart by war. "Not having the Library has truly been a loss to society these past few months," he said a bit more seriously. "Shall we see to these books then? I am less familiar with how you had them arranged, and had planned to see to the shelving myself, unless you would prefer otherwise?"
"I have no other preference," came Rodolphus' reply, succinct as always and bearing no more praise. Internally, however, he was comforted by the fact that Severus would be the one handling his books in lieu of himself. Though he could have taken upon the task, he considered the rennovation of this library a pride and a privilege which Severus should be allowed to see to completion. He would, therefore, give him the honour of doing so -- under guidance, of course.
Two, three, five flights of stairs, and Rodolphus and Severus passed easily through the protective wards keeping this part of the library limited to those with experience in the Dark Arts.
"Begin with defensive books. They are meant for this shelf." He gestured.
Severus nodded, and turned his attention to the boxes. Each had been arranged by call number, and therefore by topics. Dark Arts or not, Severus found himself intrigued by the collection and he honestly hoped that he would someday have the opportunity to study many of them in more detail. But today was not that day, and so he opened a box and began with the defensive books, handling each one with care.
He knew that even being allowed to touch these books meant he had earned a level of trust that was no doubt a privilege for someone of his birth to gain. In fact, this project altogether indicated a trust that Severus doubted Rodolphus Lestrange placed in many people and Severus was about to purposefully betray that trust. He placed a dark leather volume on the shelf and turned around to Rodolphus. "And those covering hexed objects?"
Rodolphus did not seem to hesitate -- as if this room had been planned out and he knew the location of every potential text. "Hexed objects should begin directly beneath defensive, and any overflow should continue on the bottom level of the next shelf, not the top." He walked around the room with his arms behind his back, considering the empty shelves and nodding occasionally, reiterating where he'd put his beloved books. "And when we are finished," he went on dryly, "we are going to firesafe every single book on this floor and the two below it."
"I quite agree with that sir," Severus nodded. He reached for a dark green leather book and began to complete the next section, once again handling the books with care. Before the room was finished and Rodolphus left Severus would need to get Frank in here. He would finish this section and then go to retrieve the final box of books. For the moment, anyway, Rodolphus seemed occupied with the reshelving. "We do not want any risk of a repeat, not that the wards on the outside should allow for it, but considering..." he allowed the thought to be left unfinished knowing that Rodolphus would fill in the blanks. With all of the homes that had been attacked -- nearly all of them with strong wards -- it really did not need to be said that even the strongest wards were not necessarily protection enough.
He placed the final book in that section on the shelf and stood up, looking over at Rodolphus. "I left the box of offensive texts downstairs. I believe they are next so I will go and grab them now and be right back momentarily."
Rodolphus gave an abrupt nod and didn't watch Severus go. Instead, he reached into the box of books and withdrew the next, an old German text he had not seen in some time. Rather than locate its position on the shelf, he leaned back into one of the central tables in the room, considering it and the other things he had to do this week. The Dark Lord wanted Potter and Longbottom found, and though it seemed an impossible task, he would accomplish it, somehow. He had to. His master did not react well to failure.
Severus left the room, stepping outside of the door and walking down three stairs but he did not go the rest of the way down to the first floor where he had left the books. This was the moment: perhaps his one chance to make this work, and if he failed now -- but he couldn't fail. He set his jaw and looked back up at the room, reaching for his wand.
He knew how the wards on these rooms worked. He had gone through them with Bellatrix, and he had rebuilt this library from the ground up. His hand had overseen every aspect and in the case of the wards, he had helped place many of them back into place so that if there was anyone who knew the Library close to as well as the unsuspecting man on the floor above him, it was Severus.
There was no other way, he thought. As much as he might respect Lestrange's unwavering beliefs if not the beliefs themselves, and his skill as a wizard, if Severus didn't remove him from the picture now, Lily would be in danger and Severus had sworn that he would do everything within his power to keep Lily safe and that hadn't changed. The Order had lost enough people, and the loss of Rodolphus Lestrange would perhaps equal the playing field a bit, and Lily would be safe.
He closed his eyes for a second and then he moved his wand to bring down every single ward that protected the top floors of the Lestrange Library and its owner.
Rodolphus was mid page-flip when he felt the burn of his pocket-watch against his chest, a fraction of a second's warning before a pulse of magic thudded through the room, almost palpable with danger. His mouth was open, a bellow formed at the back of his throat for Severus (to help, to get away, he had no time to decide), before magic poured into him, hot and angry and murderous. He fell to the ground with a sharp noise, shaking as every muscle contracted, as every nerve fired. It hurt. It was supposed to hurt. He struggled to breathe as the magic subsided and struggled to reach the now-torn book that had fallen with him.
When the wards fell, Frank was ready.
He had lingered by the apparition point closest to the library, Disillusioned and quiet as he waited for the signal. For over an hour, he'd waited, a gritty composure gripping him as the minutes crawled by and people, any one of them a potential liability to his position, went about their activities of daily living. What he saw was both farce and sobering reminder that life had to go on; that the everyman had to continue as best as he could, even under the shadow of the Lestrange Library, which had risen again despite their best efforts. And it had been one of their best efforts, for Bagnold, despite his own personal grievances against her, was a formidable player in this war -- and she had died saving his life, not more than a few hundred metres away from where he was now waiting.
And now, that selfsame library was giving them another chance to strike. It was, Frank thought, more personal this time, for the target was Lestrange himself, a man with so many strikes against him that making an attempt on him made sense for both strategic and personal reasons. There was the matter of Lily, the matter of Marlene, the matter of -- so much. Too much. Retaliation could not be be overlooked, which is why when Severus approached him, Frank had been quick to answer.
The waiting, although it felt like it now, would not be the worst thing that would happen. It felt like it, though, and although Frank's hand was steady as he kept surveillance on the state of the wards with gentle probes of his wand, adrenalin lurched when suddenly, there was -- nothing.
The wards had come down.
The air cracked as he disapparated, appearing not a second later at the pre-arranged rendezvous point. "Where?" he asked Severus, already steeling himself for the second apparition.
Severus had barely had time to even reach for his journal to scribble a note to Frank who would be waiting before the man was there by his side. He must have been testing the wards to see when they fell, and the thought quickly crossed Severus' mind that he would have done the same in Longbottom's shoes. He nodded briefly and inclined his head towards the sixth floor of the Library. It was on the tip of his tongue to remind Longbottom that Rodolphus Lestrange could not escape, he would know what Severus had done, but it had been discussed and it was a waste of breath. Severus was fairly certain they both knew what was at stake by now. He would take his cues from the man he had just betrayed and say nothing more than was absolutely necessary.
"Up there."
And as soon as the words had left the Death Eater's mouth, Frank was gone again. The clock was ticking, and for all of the crippling effects of the aftershock of wards that had been forcibly disabled, recovery was inevitable. Removing Rodolphus as quickly as possible was crucial, and as he materialized into being on the sixth floor, Frank was already making a motion with his wand. The table that loomed above the fallen figure was sent skidding out of the away as he strode up to Rodolphus; the ruined book was brushed aside. "Hello, Lestrange," came the greeting, flatly spoken as with another flick of his wand, he flipped him onto his stomach.
His reaction to the intrusion was slow; his ears were half-deafened by residual magic, and he realised only as the book he desperately moved for was swept out of his grasp that this was not a mistake.
He had been betrayed.
Pain swept across Rodolphus's insides, emotional damage made tangible, as his mind tore to Severus. This was his second mistake. First Gideon, who had murdered his father. Now Snape, who would have him murdered. No. He would not die by that ungrateful half-breed's hand.
As his face hit the floor, he growled, the other's voice going unrecognised -- did it matter who it was sent here for him? -- and reached for something, anything to help him. A lamp was grasped between his palms and though he was weakened by the fall, he was strong enough. Whipping it towards the man behind him, he gave a bellow of determination, anger, and pain from the effort, determined to show all of them that he would not be bested like this.
Frank Longbottom. How interesting. Perhaps when he was finished with him he'd let Frank use his last dying breath to tell him where Alice was.
The man must have been iron-born. It was a thought that left as quickly as it'd surfaced, discarded as instinct and the muscle-memory born of hours of grueling training kicked in. Rather than stand firm against the blows of a man who, at his core, even when lying with his face in the metaphorical dirt, was a source of raw, unadulterated power, Frank moved back, letting the makeshift weapon graze against his left arm. Even with the deadness of sensation left by a year of fighting werewolves and Death Eaters, that clout still hurt -- but it was nothing, it was momentary and forgettable in the light of what needed to be done.
In the brief refractory period before Rodolphus could rise up and swing again, he slammed his foot down on his arm. The lamp was ripped out of his grasp and hurled away; and then he grabbed the man by the hair and, after an initial backwards wrench, rammed his face into the floor.
Rage and pain erupted from him as bones and muscle were crushed beneath Frank's boot, and Rodolphus struggled to keep grasp on his only weapon; he failed, and his face was in the hardwood floor, blood was in his mouth as his lip sliced over his teeth, as his cheek split over some remaining construction debris. But he refused to die with his face to the ground (though some sliver of reason at the base of his brain wondered why Frank had not used the death curse while he had the chance) and struggled. There was an arm in his grasp and he grabbed for it, survival instinct indifferent to the agony of ripping someone else's hand from his hair. He dragged and bit and viciously pulled. He wanted Frank on the floor and he wanted to taste his blood while he was there.
Frank gave him that, a forced exhalation of breath hissing through his lips more from the sudden loss of balance than the dull pressure of teeth as they pushed and pushed and tore skin. His knee smacked the ground as he was pulled down, the toe of his shoe scraping the floor as he braced himself against the unrelenting pull exerted by the other man. There was something wholly satisfying about this -- some basic, fundamental need for brute force was being fulfilled -- but as the goal had not changed between one moment and the next, Frank knew that this particular scuffle could not continue, and an Incarcerous aimed at Lestrange's neck instantly saw a cord, slender and taut, wind around his throat.
The rope wound fast and hard and Rodolphus dropped Frank to claw at it; his body did not want to die, no matter how desperately he wished to cause the other man injury, and devoted its resources to the hindering of that outcome. Thick fingers dug into his throat, scratching and scraping to get beneath the binding, but it proved more difficult than he could have imagined. It was simple fact: physical prowess was no combat against magic. He turned his attention back towards Frank, though his hands kept at their work, and kicked and kicked at the man as hard as he was able. If he could break something, if he could make him fall again -- then he could stop the spell. He could save himself.
But Frank was having none of it. He rolled away, releasing the spell and allowing the rope to slacken in the time he needed to get to his feet -- and then the magic was resumed. Once again, the cord drew tight around Rodolphus' neck, biting into the columns of muscle that stood out in stark relief from all the effort and rage that drove the man's struggle. Ends looped together, twisted; then they streaked down, each winding around a wrist. An upward slash of his wand brought the cords together again, and with them, a hand, and as soon they were clasped, neck and arms held tight by the rope, Frank reached down and grabbed the tail-ends of the cord.
He yanked it, driving his foot into the small of the man's back as he tested the knots, satisfied when he saw the pressure feed back to the noose around Lestrange's throat.
Rodolphus could taste the floor beneath him as he choked, and though he continued to struggle till the very last breath, he knew he was getting weaker. His lungs ached and his chest tightened, and his kicking slowly but surely died down until he was still. And all he could think about as he lay, bound and breathless, on the floor, was how greatly he desired to attack Frank, and how badly he wished to get his hands on Snape. He was not ready to die. Not yet. He had things to do, least of which was get revenge on the traitor.
It would have to wait.
Suddenly there was only the sound of two men struggling for breath. Frank's breathing was the easier, a greedy suck of air followed by a slower, deeper breath that steadied him as he twisted the rope around his hand. The compression on Rodolphus' throat was constant -- disabling but not fatal, so long as the man did not give him cause to wrench and tighten the noose.
"On your feet," was bitten out. The words were underscored by a light tug and a more encouraging swish of his wand, from which a patronus then spilled. Severus had to be notified that they were gone and that the wards could be replaced -- or whatever the younger man was intending to do to cover their tracks.
There was a growl from Rodolphus -- something along the lines of "go to hell" that was muffled against the floor and constricted by lack of breath -- and he lay still. If Frank wanted him to go somewhere he could bloody well move him himself. He wasn't going to help the other man take him anywhere.
A mistake on Rodolphus' part. The silver dog flickered and faded from existence as the wand-tip was driven into the base of his skull and a Crucio was delivered to the core of the man's nervous system. It was a quick, sharp curse, and replaced within seconds by a Locomotor that forced Rodolphus up.
Loud noises of agony and fury exploded against the floor and every struggle drove the robe harder into this throat -- but Rodolphus had neither the presence of mind nor the indifference to that evil spell to keep himself from moving -- and from choking himself. The trashing quickly became a struggle against gravity as his was lifted by magic, and his head slumped down towards the floor so that he could watch blood and saliva fall to the ground. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Others might have chosen this moment to allow themselves to gloat, to give themselves over to derisive triumph for having seized Rodolphus Lestrange and rendered him helpless and dangling before them. Not Frank. This was no victory; this wasn't something to exult in. As he stepped around the fettered man, his face was drawn into a tight mask of bleak resolve. Sweat dampened his forehead as he recalled the patronus -- and it took effort this time, for his wand and mind had been so recently blackened by the malice of the curse.
Once the silver figure had taken form, it was sent bounding off to Severus with the message that Lestrange was acquired and that they would be far gone by the time he received the news. "Animals get put on a leash, Lestrange," he said, turning back to the captive man, withdrawing one of the Order's portkeys as he spoke.
"Remember that when your wife is hanging from one, blood traitor," came Rodolphus's reply, a growl low with effort and marred by contempt. He could think of nothing but revenge because to think of more was to admit the possibility that he might die. He wanted his wards back up. He wanted his hands and he wanted them wrapped around Frank's throat. He had to escape this because any other outcome was unacceptable. They had come too far and fought too hard for him to be dragged out of his library tied up in ropes.
He struggled against them, and a spatter of blood hit the ground again as he choked.
For that, Frank had no reply, his attention already transferred to the portkey instead of remaining fixed on the spite of a captive man. It was in fact a key that he grasped, and he enclosed it with the fingers of his sluggishly bleeding hand as with the other, he tugged Rodolphus close. A fistful of hair joined the rope that he already held, and without another word, he activated the portkey.
There was that sickening sensation of being pulled out of time and space -- and then they were gone.